


The Marksman

by Speckofoursource



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Gen, Lance (Voltron) Whump, Season/Series 08 Spoilers, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-09-27
Packaged: 2020-05-19 17:17:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19361245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Speckofoursource/pseuds/Speckofoursource
Summary: An AU in which our favorite sharpshooter suffers, and his friends endeavor to help.





	1. In Medias Res

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In Medias Res_ : Into the midst of things. This chapter begins in the middle of a rescue gone wrong. Lance is injured, detained by the enemy, and in for a whole lot of pain.

Lance didn't rouse for a long time, but when he did, he wished he hadn't.

“ _Ooo_ , that's a shiner,” someone remarked. He reluctantly opened a bloodshot eye and beheld a talking dog, up close and personal.

He blinked. Her snout was in his face, brown pointed ears erect, with a pair of flight goggles on her brow. He could have sworn she _sniffed_ him. He flinched, and she… smiled… or at least drew up one flew, revealing two rows of sharp teeth.

Hunk gave him too much nerve block.

_Hunk!_

The sudden memory of Hunk’s capture caused his chest to inflate like an airbag on impact. Stars exploded in his vision; the blast struck him with debilitating, blinding pain in his head, in his breast. Every nerve ending of his arm was on fire. Then the canine was in his ear, coaching him to breathe, but he couldn’t, and _damnit_ she was not being helpful.

She stayed near and continued to talk to him until the pain subsided.

“Easy, easy,” she chided, pressing the breathing mask to his face. But his eyes watered at the touch, and he wouldn’t be muzzled like, well, a _stray_. He gave his head a vicious shake, which he instantly regretted.

“Alright, jet jockey, have it your way,” and she withdrew.

“This is… Hell,” he breathed. It might have been a statement. It might have been a question.

“Close enough,” she shrugged, dabbing at his blood-caked nose with a filthy rag. He yelped like a blasted puppy. “We are Gladiator bait for sure.”

“Where’s Hunk?” It hurt, saying his name.

“I don’t know.”

He must have looked wretched because she added casually, “I’m sure he’ll be alright, he’s a tough one. Anyway, he looked a lot better than you. _You_ look like you’ve been tossed through a shredder.”

“Do I know you?” he grated out. He tasted iron in his throat and his stomach turned.

“I’m Olia. Rebel pilot. Command requested a Medvac crew. We were… coming for _you_. Lance, right?”

He nodded cautiously, feeling sick.

“Hunk eventually found us after we were shot down. I'm amazed you're still _alive_.”

At that he turned his head away and vomited.

“Mostly alive,” she amended, crossing her fore limbs.

“Where… " He spat on the floor, then tried again. "Where are we?”

“Inside a Zaiforge cannon,” she frowned - could a dog frown? - looking about. “Some holding room. They took all of us, but they paired me with you, aren’t _I_ lucky,” she said wryly.

Lance swung his legs to one side, grunting with the effort.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting… up.” He rolled off the crate and flopped onto his knees.

“You really shouldn’t,” Olia warned, but he was already scrabbling across the floor to the energy barrier that marked their prison. The tube in his arm snagged somewhere, so he fumbled for the line and ripped it out with an irritated yank, spattering a fine line of blood across the cold metal floor.

Olia was clearly vexed. She raised her voice, warning him about making things worse, but he collapsed at the threshold of their brig and howled Hunk’s name.

His brother in arms had been captured. All of them, including those who had come to his rescue, were now prisoners of the enemy. He tried to peer through the barrier to seek out the others, but it was like polyethylene: not quite opaque, neither transparent.

He began to shout for anyone in general; perhaps the barrier could not contain sound. Olia’s sarcastic comments reached his ears, and he shouted harder to drown her out, feeling immediately foolish: this was entirely his fault.

Then words simply shattered, as did his resolve to mask fear with surliness. He wept, pounding one fist against the floor, beating consonants and vowels to pieces and bawling in agonized frustration until his voice and breath had left him. His body raged on, protesting the abuse of oxygen. So he lay, spewing acid anger and strangling on bloody bitterness, shedding yet more tears that he could not name. When he could purge no more, he couldn’t be sure if any sound actually permeated their cell, because he could hear nothing for the thunder in his head.

He did hear Olia mutter after a while, “You have lost your damn mind.” He lay gasping like a landed fish for thin air at the threshold. Otherwise they shared an indifferent silence.

He fully expected to drown in his blood there on the floor. The earth no longer had her hooks in him, and yet he had no doubt: he would die very soon. However two guards entered their confines later, not seeming to notice as their steps smeared through the gore around him. The first dragged Lance by his one good arm through the portal, saying nothing. Olia leapt to her haunches, unable to complete her distressed appeals.

“He’s _not_ … you _can’t_ …”

This was it. His time had finally come, so Lance gave up the fight.

He came to in a bright room. He could not focus his vision on anything, and he lay bound upon a flat surface.

_Not dead yet._

“You won’t survive, so we’re beginning with you,” a foreign voice confirmed. “You don’t have long, so now is your opportunity to spare your friends. I advise that you not waste it.”

_Hunk._

_Olia._

_The Medvac Crew._

“You know what we want.” A masked druid gradually took shape above him, regarding him indifferently.

Lance tried to roll his head away, to demonstrate his full intent to resist, but a shriek startled him - not his own - and his head snapped back around to locate the source of the cry. The light was still too bright, or his vision too impaired.

The druid smoothed long fingers across his face, marking a wet trail of fresh blood over his nose and cheeks.

“She wasted a lot of effort, didn’t she? Trying to keep you alive.”

Lance growled. He couldn’t see her.

_Olia._

_No._

“They told me you were a fighter,” the voice continued. Another scream pierced the air, and Lance bucked against the restraints, knowing it was futile, despairing that all he knew was how to fight and drag others down with him.

“If you do not disclose their location, one of _them_ will.”

A hot retort forming on his tongue, he opened his mouth, but a sentry shoved the muzzle of a blaster between his teeth. Her blood stung at his eyes, rolled down one cheek, masqueraded as tears.

“ _Carefully_ ,” the faceless captor warned. “I’ll do this once only.”

_Definitely Hell._

The weapon withdrew and Lance took no pause declaring, “Vrepit sa.”

The female captive sobbed - a strangled sound of relief - and after a shot sounded, fell bodily to the floor.

Lance howled and plummeted into the darkness after her.

Lance heard the voice of the Champion calling. There was a white noise vying against him, other voices like the rushing torrent of a mighty river. Gravity felt wrong… so could it be called gravity?

One voice was Hunk’s, rambling a short distance away. Lance couldn’t discern the words, but felt solace at the sound of his friend’s frantic prattle. Shiro was closer in proximity. And one other familiar presence very near: The Puigan medic. He realized they were all crammed into the confines Hunk’s cockpit together.

They had escaped.

They escaped at _Olia’s_ expense.

The Puigan draped that infernal line over his nose again. Shiro expertly ran something sharp into his hand. The medic spoke low and urgently, and Shiro murmured back, his voice strained. They were determined to save him. _The others_ , Lance wanted to ask. _Had they all made it out?_ All he could do was moan aloud his cognizance and displeasure.

“You’ll be alright, buddy, just hang on.” Shiro. A reassuring hand of flesh met his.

It was unprecedented for Shiro to be so _wrong_. Lance tried to shake his head, to insist it was too late. His lungs burned with longing for the relief of vacancy. Shiro rolled him over as his body squeezed up fluids, making space for breath, for words. Lance knew he needed to select these carefully.

“If we drain too quickly, the lung could collapse,” The Puigan female hissed. “We risk too much without the proper equipment. We must wait until we are back at base.”

“You have to do it _now_ ,” Shiro replied, eyeing her sternly. “There’s no time.”

“What is our ETA?” She demanded of Hunk, who threw his hands up.

“The throttle’s wide open!” came the exasperated response. “Maybe 15 doboshes!”

“ _I’m_ calling the shots,” The Champion pressed, but the medic resisted him.

“ _You_ are not my authority,” she argued, her accent thickening. Shiro was steadfastly patient, but even his forbearance had a breaking point.

“Lance is _my_ protege,” he spoke softly, vehemently, “and _I_ am responsible for - “

“Mox... nix."

The cockpit fell silent at Lance’s hushed words. _Es macht nichts. It doesn’t matter._

“Shut it!” Hunk snapped.

“Lance, you’re gonna make it. I promise,” Shiro insisted.

“The others,” Lance whispered in earnest. The tension in their confined space was almost palpable. Shiro ground his teeth, the conflict brewing within and without.

Lance made to implore once more, but his final plea was stanched by a gush of blood. It dribbled over his chin, and the device in the Puigan’s grasp gave a shrill warning.

“He’s not breathing!” she translated.

Shiro just sat watching, unnerved. No words.

Hunk was on edge. “ _Do something!_ ”

Lance’s body began to convulse, and then Shiro bolted into action, decidedly tearing the sterile packaging of a surgical kit. He selected a length of flex tubing and hastily stretched it over the narrow end of a thin, hollow cylinder. Shiro took calculated aim under the rib cage, and in one hard thrust he drove it into Lance’s chest cavity. Lance's body went rigid, and a ghastly spray of bodily fluid spewed from his mouth across the cockpit.

“Sorry buddy,” Shiro said gruffly. “This is my last-ditch effort.”

The medic watched with patent horror as Shiro sucked hard on the end of the tube to initiate a siphon. He then barked orders to Hunk, who was in rare form, cursing aloud as he wrenched back on the yoke. He narrowly avoided enemy fire and wheeled them back around.

Fluids emerged from the tube, and the Puigan leapt to his aid, securing the drainage line while Shiro clasped Lance’s jaw and pinched his nose. He bent over his work, forcing breath into Lance's lungs while the Puigan studied the results of his hasty procedure.

“You reached the pleural space,” she muttered, wonder coloring her tone. “Barbaric, but you actually _improvised_ a thoracic catheter.”

“I won't let him die,” Shiro vowed between breaths, Lance’s blood hot on his lips.

Another shriek sounded from the medic’s device. “Heart failure!” she declared.

“ _Don’t_ do this, Lance!” The Champion persisted, pumping Lance’s chest and respiring for him in rhythmic succession.

The Puigan’s fingers flashed about, fixing probes and consulting her small network of equipment. Her eyes were fixed shrewdly on the time, and after too much had passed, she lamented, “We’re losing him!”

Hunk was spitting on the radio, “Gourmand Two to base, advise EOC to _standby!_ All craft heading  _back_ to the cannon, and _damn it all to Hell!_ ” 

 

_A Flashback_

Sometimes the bonds between brothers must first be forged in flagrant hatred.

They circled one another outside the Garrison mess hall, trading blows and striking chords. A cluster of nearby cadets observed in appalled silence from a neutral corner, frozen in place.

“I've had _enough_ of your shit!” Keith snarled, lunging for him. Lance had the advantage of height, but he was thrown off balance by the flyweight, and together they collided with a nearby row of waste bins, scattering recyclables.

Hunk stepped into the ring, forsaking the anonymity of the sidelines to end the brawl. The fighters were now in a clinch. He wedged himself between them; he was the very image of Samson between opposing columns.

“Stop, Keith! Lance, enough! This isn't worth it!”

Keith was the experienced fighter, and he seized the opportunity to hit on the break. Lightning quick, his knuckles cracked into Lance’s nose, and blood sprayed. Enraged, Lance swung out blindly and landed a hit to Hunk’s gut.

“ _Dude_ , cut it out! I’m trying to help you!” Hunk wheezed, momentarily disabled.

Keith neatly dodged the amateur strikes and feinted with his right before cutting up with a hard left. His fist connected with Lance’s jaw, who staggered backwards and went down.

Pidge skirted around them, exclaiming some warning they collectively ignored. Lance kicked out one long leg and Keith went down too. Hunk recovered enough to quickly detain Keith, wrapping his arms like a vice around him. In a few breaths, Commander Iverson was unleashing his wrath upon them all.

“Stand the _fuck_ down!” he was roaring, descending on them in blazing fury.

He grasped Lance by the bloody shirt front and bellowed in his face. “My office! _Now_!”

Keith stretched out in a slant across the small sofa, his arms still crossed. His chin rest against his chest while he slept. His furrowed brow betrayed the stress of some anxious dream.

Lance blinked in disbelief, seeing Keith sleeping there on that sofa, and where was anyone else? Where was Iverson, and why weren’t they in his office? Had they both been expelled from the Garrison?

His body glowed with weightlessness, perched so high above the churning waters that he had nearly forgotten they were there.

He finally had space to breathe. He took the liberty and filled his breast. He wished he could hold it in, but he felt too weak, so he let it go in a whuff and sucked in through his nose greedily again - cold and dry air. He breathed loud and unabashedly. It sounded strange. It smelled... and then the echo of a thought came to him.

_Not dead yet._

He reared a bit, trying to see down the bridge of his nose, and discovered something had been wedged between his teeth. He realized his tongue was numb; his jaw ached.

Then his heart fluttered, _and a sentry shoved the muzzle of a blaster in his mouth._ An incessant bleeping sounded nearby. _Olia shrieked; what had they done to her?_

“Lance?”

_“Lance, right?”_

Keith was still in a slant, arms still crossed. But he had lifted his head, and his eyes were open, clouded from sleep.

_“She wasted a lot of effort, didn’t she? Trying to keep you alive.”_

Pain and panic alike contested for territory in his chest. Lance made an agitated sound in his throat, _her blood pricking at the corners of his eyes and his cheeks_ , and instantly Keith was on his feet and crossing the room with his hand raised, words rushing incoherently.

_“Vrepit sa.”_

Keith began to fuss at another being in the room he didn’t recognize. Hands were on him, and Lance tried to thrash free, but Keith leaned in close and was repeating in his ear, “You’re ok, you're ok! Just relax, relax…”

Lance felt angry enough to hit him again, and then tried to, but Keith's words and face bleached into a fog, and everything vanished.

Lance opened his eyes again to the same scene, different Paladin.

She sat centered on the same sofa, one ankle crossed over her knee. She balanced a data-reader there, but she wasn’t looking at it. She was looking directly at him, smug as ever.

“He’s awake now, sir,” a stranger was saying softly nearby. A familiar male voice answered an affirmative on the other end of an electronic comm, then cut out.

Lance moved his tongue. The bit was gone now, and he could feel his teeth. He swallowed cautiously, then tried his voice.

“I’m…”

He sounded nothing like himself. Pidge waited, watching him patiently, so he plodded on after taking a clearing breath.

“I’m not… dead,” It might have been a statement. It might have been a question.

Pidge smirked, tweaking the oversized, round rims of her glasses.

“You’re alive,” she beamed. “Against all odds.”

A laugh sounded. To his right stood an unfamiliar Olkari nurse.

“They said you were a fighter,” the nurse remarked, fishing a slim tool from her pocket. She directed a blinding beam of a light into one eye.

_“They told me you were a fighter.”_

“Can you tell me your name?” She shifted the light to his other eye, _but a shriek startled him - not his own -_ and he recoiled from it.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” The Olkari said gently, mistaking the gesture. She withdrew the small torch and glanced to Pidge, whose face no longer appeared so pleased.

Lance bolted upright on a gasp.

“Shh,” the nurse chided, murmuring something, but Lance was desperate to compose the question.

“The Med... O- _Olia_!” Lance choked on her name, the recollection sudden and merciless. “Is she… Did she...?!”

Pidge was frozen in place halfway between sitting and standing, unsure whether to approach him.

“You’re _safe_ ,” the Olkari insisted, in the attempt to divert him.

Shiro stepped lightly into the room, grinning. But his smile vanished instantly as three sets of eyes impaled him, Lance’s wide as saucers.

“What’s…” he started, but Lance interjected.

“She's dead?” he cried. “Olia?”

Shiro’s mouth hung open in dread-filled silence, all but confirming what Lance knew in his heart to be true.

“ _No_ ,” he moaned. This time, stinging tears masqueraded as blood, washing out his vision. He survived and Olia did not. Hands were on him again, on his head, on his chest, while he sobbed out “my fault” like a mantra, and no one offered any other words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Future chapters may go back and forth from past to present-time. I'm still deciding how to best construct it all, so I apologize for any confusion.


	2. Dust and Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hunk takes the search for Lance on foot. Bless him, he tries so hard.
> 
> Takes place just prior to Chapter 1, _In Medias Res_. Contains spoilers for Season 3 and beyond.

Hunk stepped as lightly as possible through the debris, his blaster at the ready. This zone was still controlled by the Galra. He felt anxious leaving the Lion exposed on the ground, but he had no better choice. A search for Lance on foot would be the most expedient method. He could hear the shots exchanged in the distance; the air battle raged on. He briefly checked in with command.

“Tailor Four is still MIA. I’m searching on foot. Keep an eye on my girl.”

_“Copy that Gourmand Two.”_

He returned to the last coordinates he had from Lance, where they met at the perch. He knew it would not be recognizable now, but some mathematical figures and scientific theory just might get him close. The height of the spire, the degree of rotation, the angle of the collapse… He had his heading, and he followed as quickly as possible.

Pidge had long ago fixed a thermal scanner to his barrel. He scoured the grounds for the colors of warm life, hopeful he would find it, but he doubted he could locate a cold dead body in the piles of brittle earth - neither with his instruments or the naked eye. Unwelcome dread settled in his center, giving way to a flood of anxious thoughts. As hope would have it, however, it wasn’t long before a thermogram formed on the display, proclaiming _life_ , and not far off from his calculations. Pidge would be proud.

“Lance?” Hunk whispered, daring himself to have faith as he rushed up the small mound ahead. His legs sank deep into the dunes, but he trudged on, thin dust clouds fleeing into the air with each step, affronted at the disturbance. Reaching his destination, he stared hard at the spot, like a monochrome photograph, trying to discern a human form. And then he spied it: the close-cropped hair of the back of a head, pasty and still as a grey stone bust, nestled in the ashen remains of its former body.

Hunk reached him and dropped hard, puffing. “Lance, can you hear me?” He thrust two fingers under his jaw, seeking a pulse. He found one, rapid but sure. Lance blinked up at him, glassy-eyed and relieved. “ _Shit_ I'm glad you didn't step on me,” he croaked.

“Lance!” A huge grin split Hunk’s face in two. 

Lance frowned. “You took _forever_ man,” he complained. Hunk squeezed his left shoulder and gave him a once-over.

“Gourmand Two to Champion, I've found him! He's a mess, but he's alive! Send a medic to my coordinates.” Voices rejoiced over the radio, but Lance had his ear.

“I’m trapped.” Lance rasped. “I can’t move my arm.”

Hunk immediately set to work unearthing his comrade from the premature grave, raking through the sharp mixture of jagged slabs and grit. The excavation required a quick but delicate hand. He was careful to avoid Lance’s wounds, briefly examining them as he went. “Nothing too serious so far,” Hunk muttered. “You're lucky.”

“I don't feel lucky.” Lance closed his eyes. 

Hunk peered into his friend's face, smeared with the grey-brown soot. He was pale, and his hair was plastered down in bloodied patches. A faint, stern line appeared between his brows. He looked entirely unlike himself. 

“Let’s get you out,” Hunk said gently, hooking arms under his shoulder and hoisting upward, but Lance protested the movement with an anguished noise. Sure enough, the right arm was still caught, and Hunk plunged his own down into the debris to free it. He couldn’t be sure what exactly he was feeling - _no, no don't want to know now -_ but in a moment he carefully extricated the limb from something mangled beneath the earth and placed it over Lance’s heaving chest. 

“Oh fu…”  Hunk swallowed. He grabbed a tourniquet and hastily tied it under the shoulder.

“We need that medic right away!” He paged again in alarm.

_“Copy that Gourmand Two, a Medvac is already en route.”_

“Hell,” Hunk breathed through his nose, an inopportune wave of nausea washing over him. 

Lance cradled his crushed appendage like a frail child. “Got my sidearm.” He forced a lame chuckle.

“ _Not_  funny!” Hunk snarled, scrambling to fix a compress.

Lance's body trembled with suppressed laughter, or so Hunk assumed. But when he spoke to Lance a moment later, there was no answer. 

“No, _no no no_ , stay with me,” he frantically felt for a pulse again. It was there, but for how much longer? 

 “We need that medic _yesterday_!” Hunk hailed again, recalling what he could about emergency field medicine. He stretched Lance flat on his back and rummaged through a pack, looking for something warm. 

 Command was not responding either. Hunk glanced in the direction of his craft and made an aggravated sound. The radio silence seemed to last a lifetime before the next page. 

  _“Gladiator to Gourmand Two, we have a situation.”_

 “Yeah? And what's that?”

  _“Our Medvac took a hit. She's down. We cannot make contact.”_

 His heart skipped a solid beat, then pounded hard with adrenaline. There might be survivors, but he couldn't reach them now. Lance wouldn't survive if he went after them. He ground his teeth, estimating the distance, then dismissed the thought almost as soon as it came.

 “Get me someone who can talk me through this. _Fast._ ”

  _“Stand by.”_

Hunk had successfully stopped the bleeding for the moment, but went weak in the knees at what came next.

 “Uh, is this absolutely necessary?” He asked, locating a bag of intravenous fluid in his pack. 

  _“His symptoms indicate hypovolemic shock. If he's going to survive, you have to do this.”_ Pidge insisted.

 Hunk resigned with a guttural sigh. “Alright, alright.”

 " _I’ll help you through it.”_

 He scrambled to prep the equipment according to her instructions, uttering muffled curses. Perhaps Shiro should have done this after all; he had far more experience in this endeavor. Hunk’s lip curled in distaste as he glared at the needle in his fingers. 

 “Have you done this before?” He asked, wiping the sweat from his free hand on his thigh.

  _“Nope,”_ Pidge said simply. _“I’m reading a manual.”_

 Hunk gave a low groan.

  _“Just go slow and shallow. You can do it.”_

 He tried to exhale his reservations. Then he steeled his nerve, swabbed Lance’s arm, and gently pierced the flesh as Pidge described.

 “I think I got it,” he reported weakly.

  _“Check the hub for a flashback.”_

 “A what?”

  _“Blood. Check the hub for blood.”_

 Hunk winced, breathing carefully. “Ah… No, I don’t see...” 

  _“It didn’t work. Take the needle out and try again. Different vein.”_

 Hunk withdrew the sharp, looking away from the angrily erect veins and the small ooze of blood. Lance began to stir.

 “I-I-I think he’s waking up,” Hunk stammered, working fast to sterilize the equipment. “Do you think he'll be ok?”

  _“I don’t know,”_ Pidge answered truthfully. It was a rare and unsettling response from her. 

 Hunk worried at his lip and tried again, gently advancing the needle by the smallest degrees. He stared at the chamber, and in one shaky breath he was rewarded with the ruby signal of success. 

“I got it!” he exclaimed softly, and Pidge praised his efforts, issuing her remaining instructions. Hunk released the tourniquet and dropped it, relief filling his belly in a way that good food never had. She coached him through finding and administering a nerve block, then bid him farewell.

 “Thanks Pidge. Couldn’t have done it without you.”

 “ _Get him home, Hunk_ ,” she replied, and instantly she was off to aid with the next crisis. 

 Hunk glanced down at his comrade’s pained face and wordlessly vowed to kill him if he survived.

A short time passed before Lance breached unconsciousness with an abrupt Spanish expletive. His outburst startled his former Garrison bunkmate nearly enough to piss himself.

 “Quiznak!” Hunk gasped, groping at his heart. For a fleeting moment he had nodded off, slouching against his pack. He drew his bayard a little closer, rolled onto his knees, and shuffled over to his charge. 

 “Lance, are you ok?” he asked between breaths.

 Lance’s eyes were squeezed shut and he moaned aloud miserably, lifting his head. 

 “No no, stay flat,” Hunk ordered, obstructing his progress. Lance reflexively reached for his bandaged arm, but Hunk nabbed his wrist as well. “Just don't move. Pidge thinks you're in shock. You need to be still.” 

 He waited for a smart-ass retort, but Lance only drew in his knees and twisted to his side. Hunk leaned over him and wrestled him flat, but Lance’s knee connected with his rib in a sharp counter motion, eliciting a grunt. Hunk fought back a hot flare of anger while he pinned his friend’s shoulders to the ground. 

 “Damnit Lance, stop moving.” Hunk hissed between his teeth. His comparably formidable size prevented his patient from gaining any ground, but Lance incurred his wrath when he made a wild move and nearly struck him in the face. Hunk blocked the swing and caught Lance by the left arm, careful not to crush the drip set as it swung between them in the struggle. The blood drained from Hunk's face.

 “Always, you _always_ make everything difficult! Just let me help you!” Hunk bellowed.

 But Lance had no comeback, panting like a feral animal between agonized growls. His eyes were half open, but they were unseeing and brimming with hot tears. Hunk pinned his arm down again, feeling baffled as they wrestled, and then it dawned on him like a strike to the gut: the painkiller. He had forgotten to administer the painkiller. Lance wasn’t fighting _him_ ; he was fighting appalling _pain._ The onslaught of guilt was almost enough to wreck him. 

 “Let me get you some nerve block. _Quiznak!_ Just hold on.”

 He snatched a labeled syringe from the pack, inserting it into the IV access port. Bracing a palm against Lance’s collarbone, he urged him to stay down, and used the other hand to depress the plunger.

 “This will help, I promise.”

 Lance resisted him still, but slowly the drug dulled the edge of his suffering, and the madness gradually relented.

An intractable force seemed bent on torturing him.

 It pressed him into the earth, filing him down until his resolve was fine as the dust that littered the air in the wake of his terrible fall.

 Or had it whet his survival instinct to an irrefutable point?

The innate drive to fight-or-flight had stopped firing impulses through his blood, long enough to surrender to cognizance. Lance’s eyes slit open, his vision swimming. A familiar form lingered near. He closed his eyes again and reached up instead. A broad, warm hand enveloped his securely. 

 “Hunk?” he guessed, hopeful.

  _“I’m here, man. I’m here.”_

 Hunk had not abandoned him to contend alone.

 His surroundings felt disjointed. Time slowed and then raced in erratic waves back and forth, lapping against the shores of his awareness in random rhythms. It was dizzying. But his comrade was anchored nearby, a solid and trustworthy place. Hunk squeezed his hand. Something cold brushed against his arm... _through_ his arm...

 “...the quiznek iz _thiss_?” Lance slurred. 

  _“It will help you._ Don’t _touch it.”_

 Lance’s eyes cracked open, detecting the strain in his friend’s voice, but the view didn't bring any clarity. Everything was still… muddled. 

 “Iz all... muffy,” he whispered, closing his eyes once more.

  _“Come again?”_ Hunk’s voice inquired. But Lance couldn't muster up the strength to repeat himself. His fingers went slack, but Hunk didn’t let go. 

  _“You feeling better now?_ ” He asked, amusement brightening his tone.

 “Fffeck yes,” came the off-color reply. They remained tightly moored while the glorious tide surged in and expediently dragged him under.

Lance resurfaced again at some point, feeling ironically dry as ever.

 “Water?” Lance mumbled, his lips feeling fat. He licked them.

 Hunk obliged and brought a container to his lips. When his thirst had been slaked, he immediately requested more pain killer. 

 “You’re turning into a junkie,” Hunk observed flatly as he complied.

 “Dun' patronize,” Lance quipped while the blessed embalming seeped through him.

Lance's anchor was gone when he opened his eyes. 

“Hunk?” he whispered. There came no response; there were only vague shapes of wilderness around him.

The dark tide of relief had ebbed, he was marooned, and he felt inclined to panic, but he reminded himself that he was trained to do better. He shakily lifted up onto his forearm, trying to ignore the pinch of his catheter there in the crook of it. His right arm was tightly wrapped in a sling, entirely useless.

He spied a pistol beside him, beneath Hunk’s pack. Presumably it had been left there for Lance to defend himself. He dragged himself the short distance and claimed it.

Had Hunk mentioned where he went? He tried to recall, uprighting himself against a small snag, but for the moment, all he could conjure of memory were dust and water. Invasive dust. _Prevailing_ waters, swallowing the dust, drowning it all. His lungs ached with the memory of both. Time may or may not have passed; he could not have known. He had simply been floating on this thin raft, this fine film between that dark abyss and the churning pain he could not swim out of, both sides choking out breath. 

_He sought out the sky. A grey view stretched out over familiar jagged terrain._

_Watershed moment. Ararat._

_Teetering on this precipitous place, he took aim and released the black arrow; she flew like a raven out over the waters._

_"I am still here. Have you left me?"_

_Approaching steps punctured his reverie like so many projectiles shot into his conical spire. And he fell, and he fell._

Lance’s head slammed back against the tree and awkwardly he aimed the pistol with his left hand. He labored to breathe. Several footsteps sounded, crunching through the nearby aftermath: it must have been a small troop of soldiers. The _Galra_ had found him.

His disoriented mind raced, and the raven returned to him. The legend, the champion, the testimony of trauma endured: The Black Paladin. He watched as the Galra thrust him into the fighting ring, his only form of defense his prosthetic right arm. In an immediate verdict, Lance pressed the muzzle to his own head and rest his finger on the trigger guard, having resolved not to suffer Shiro’s lot. 

Blurred figures appeared between the narrower columns, making slow progress directly toward him. He fixed his steely gaze on the nearest shape, counting down the steps until he would pull the trigger. His heart protested, hammering in his chest. _From dust you came, and to dust you shall return._

One form froze. He was discovered, but _damnit they would not take him._

More figures appeared and then stopped. 

_Now!_

But he heard his name, like a dove on the wing.

_“Lance?!”_ Hunk shouted, incredulous.

Lance leaned upright on a narrow trunk, staring them down, pointing a blaster above his ear. Hunk raised his arms pacifically.

“What the _hell_ is he doing?!” Olia hissed, stretching out her fore limbs in half surrender. The other rebels he had freed from the Medvac wreckage had also come to a confused halt, glancing nervously to Hunk for a lead.

“Lance, _put it down_ !” Hunk called out with as much authority as he could infuse into his voice. “It’s _me,_ Hunk!”

Lance was frozen for a long moment. Then he lowered the weapon fractionally before it dropped from his hand onto the soft earth. Immediately Hunk bolted for him, and when he reached him, he kicked the weapon aside in disgust. 

“ _What were you thinking?!”_ He demanded, grasping Lance by the shoulders and resisting the urge to throttle him.

“You’re... gonna... be the _death_ of me,” Lance wheezed, breathing quick and shallow.

“Oh, _trust_ me, the feeling is _mutual_ ,” Hunk said pointedly. He eased him down onto his back while two of the rescued medics rushed over and dropped to their knees beside him.

“Lance, I presume?” A female Puigan inquired dryly, checking his vitals. 

Lance scowled at Hunk. “Who…?” he rasped, but the horned alien cut him off.

“Determined to finish what the Galra started, are we?”

Lance flashed his teeth at her in a half-hearted smile, still huffing. “My... reputation... precedes me.” 

“You're the Blue Paladin, of course it does,” she answered logically. 

“ _Red_ ,” Lance corrected her between breaths. “Changing...of the...”

She shushed him and murmured to the other alien beside her. He produced a tiny oxygen apparatus.

“Our biologies are similar enough,” she stated, more to herself than anyone else, skillfully arranging the mask over his mouth. “Let's just breathe for a moment, shall we?”

Hunk shifted on his knees apprehensively. “What's happening?” 

“I can't be sure,” she admitted, probing Lance gently around the chest. He gave a dismayed grunt, and she directed her assistant to scan the spot. “Possibly broken ribs. Your species, they use lungs, yes?” 

Hunk gave a stupefied nod. Lance tried to interject, pointing at the other alien. “ _Who_ …?” he squawked, but the Puigan snatched his arm and studied the intravenous line taped in place.

“You did this?” she asked Hunk, her piercing garnet eyes meeting his.

Another nod. 

“Not too bad, Paladin. Now tell me what you've been giving him. He's as _high_ as an Olkarion buzzfly.”

 

Lance was despondent as the meds began to wear off. Hunk had finally relayed to him the details regarding his sudden disappearance and their new company.

“Stranded here... because of _me_ ,” Lance griped between cautious breaths of the strangely scented oxygen. The medic was now making a modest evaluation of his crushed arm. 

“We are stranded here because we were shot down,” she asserted. “We will manage fine.” She manipulated his trigger hand. “Can you feel this?”

“What does… Shiro say?” Lance asked Hunk instead of answering, puffing like an anxious bullfrog. 

“The Blades fired on the Teq cannon and successfully destroyed the shields, but the power….”

“No, I mean….” The Puigan had spread his fingers and applied some pressure, feeling along the fragmented skeletal structure, and Lance's vision went white with a flash of fire, causing him to squeak indignantly. 

After catching his breath, he appealed to his friend. “Hit me… hit me _up_ , man.”

“We have reduced your nerve block,” The medic explained matter-of-factly. “We need them to last.”

Lance was scandalized. “Wha…?! She can’t… Can she... ?!”

After completing her ministrations, the Puigan casually pulled Hunk aside, leaving her companion to keep watch over their cross charge. But as soon as they had passed beyond Lance’s range of hearing, she lowered her voice and unleashed her findings on him in a merciless torrent of medical jargon.

“...internal hemorrhage, probably a pleural effusion compressing the lung, and I _don't_ have the proper equipment... He must be transported back to base right away.”

Hunk felt inexplicably winded.

“My ship is not too far, but I can only transport two, _maybe_ three.”

He glanced at the small cluster of refugees, some seated and nursing injuries. A few would be left behind, until another Lion could be spared. She followed his gaze sympathetically, but she had clearly been acquainted with a life of hard choices.

“If we are to spare his life, the time is now,” she responded soberly. 

 

Hunk knelt beside his brother in arms, forcing a smile. 

“I need to go get my Lion, before the Galra find her first,” he tried to say lightly. “I expect you to _behave_ until I get back.”

Lance pouted like a rebellious child. “I _am…_ behaving,” he insisted. “ _She_ …,” He abandoned complete sentences in favor of gestures and jerked his chin vaguely toward the distracted Puigan nurse. 

Hunk made a skeptical face. “I’ll be right back. _Please_ don’t cause trouble.”

Lance reached out and clamped a hand on his arm. “ _Wait_ , wait, I…” 

Hunk's eyes widened expectantly; Lance averted his. “...Need to piss,” he mumbled in embarrassment.

A pause.

“ _Oh_ , oh really? That's good,” Hunk declared with raised brows. “That's a good sign!”

Lance gave a mortified sigh, gesturing toward their alien friends again. “I doubt they… have _that_ much biology... in common.”

Hunk gave a snort. “You need _help_?” he jeered.

Lance’s eyes narrowed, and he pointed toward a thick patch of foliage. “Just help me... _walk._..” he groused, tearing the mask off his face.

Hunk graciously played crutch and carried his saline bag for him. The pair hobbled away the small distance to a secluded knot of natural brush. They came to rest against a jagged stalagmite, and Lance leaned heavily against it. Hunk had the decency to disappear without another word.

Lance set to it, briefly considering the potential of a one-armed, left-handed sniper. He had to admit it: the prospect looked grim. Instead he entertained the image of a rifle arm prosthetic, like a real life video game. He sniggered and relieved himself, having decided to quiz Pidge about the specifics later. But the smirk died on his face when he observed that his urine was tinged with blood. He decided not to mention that.

Slumping back against the mound, he looked straight up into the barrel of a blaster, and the expressionless face of a Galra sentry.

 

They dragged Hunk into the small enclosure and dropped him prostrate in the dirt, his arms restrained behind him. Two scouts held him at gunpoint. A small troop stood behind him, barrels raised. Lance felt like he needed the oxygen mask after all.

“Shit,” was all he could say. The nearest bogey scrutinized him and pressed a firearm against his head. 

Hunk had lifted his face from the ground, fear contorting his features. “Leave him _alone_ ,” he was pleading. “ _He’s wounded_.” 

“Paladins,” one sentry remarked in vague interest to another, brandishing Hunk’s bayard. 

“This one will survive,” the other gestured to Hunk, raised the butt of his weapon, and dealt a ruthless blow to the back of his head. Hunk’s body crumpled into a lifeless heap. Lance’s belly went taut.

“We should deliver them both,” the first Galra reasoned. The other considered Lance in silence. 

“This one will fight,” it said before smashing a fist into Lance's face.


	3. Poured out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shiro thinks he knows what's best for Lance. Pidge and Keith challenge him. 
> 
> Takes place immediately following the events of Chapter 1, _In Medias Res._ Contains some spoilers for Season 7 and beyond.

He studied the stump of his bicep, haunted by the ghostly sensations of the arm no longer there. Shiro could sympathize with this anomaly, and he took some time to describe his own experience with becoming an amputee. Pidge absorbed all of this quietly, allowing them to unpack their traumas, and simply listened.

Initially Lance had taken the news well, saying he was glad to lose the arm in exchange for the Medvac crew’s lives. And like a good patient, he endured affably while his nurse examined him, laid into him with post-op information, explained pain management, and even introduced a community re-integration plan. But Lance visibly wilted as Shiro began to discuss the implications for the team.

“We haven’t had a chance to discuss it with Keith, but he may be able to…”

Shiro faltered as Pidge shot him a piercing look, giving an imperceptible shake of her auburn head.

“...I've... exhausted you. I should let you get some rest,” he said instead, straightening.

Lance said nothing, turning a cheek against the pillow and staring down at the hand he still had. It rest at his side, palm facing up in figurative surrender of his place as a paladin. Shiro locked eyes with Pidge, whose mouth thinned unhappily.

“Rest easy,” he insisted gently. “The team needs you back on your feet.”

Lance didn't reply, either succumbing to sleep or feigning it. The nurse shepherded them out quietly.

Lance had been downgraded to PCU, and his nurse disappeared shortly before Hunk bashed through the door, unceremoniously startling him awake.

“Hey man, I brought you something to eat,” he announced with a conspiratorial wink, setting down a tray laden with goods from one of the refectories on base.

Brow raised, Lance declined. “Thanks, I'm not hungry.”

Hunk had half a roll in his mouth, chewing while he spoke. “Really?” He gestured with two fingers to the untouched plate at Lance’s bedside distastefully. “Because clearly you enjoyed that?” 

Lance smiled despite himself. “I just don't have my appetite yet.”

Hunk was dubious. “Suit yourself,” he swallowed, reaching for another morsel. ”So, how do you feel?”

“Tired,” Lance closed his eyes.

“How? You've been asleep for days now.”

“ _Days_?”

“Ok, _quintants_ , whatever. At least two. We took shifts staying with you. I’ve been hoping you'd wake up soon. Although you were sedated for part of the time, so it couldn't be helped.” Hunk shrugged.

One of Lance's eyes popped open. “You were here before?”

“Twice!” Hunk answered around a mouthful. “Six vargas each time! I was so hungry! How are you not starving?”

Lance grimaced. “Even Keith was here.”

Hunk's head bobbed an affirmative while he poked another delicacy in his mouth, munching around his words. “Yeah, he came as soon as he debriefed. He was here for like 12 vargas straight. He was dead on his feet.”

Lance made a face and Hunk cringed. “Ah… Poor choice of words, sorry.”

But Lance chose to change the subject. “Thank you,” he said in a more somber octave. “I wouldn't have made it if you hadn't come for me.”

Hunk’s cheeks puffed out comically. “It sure was not easy, keeping _you_ alive.”

The moment the nurse on duty had left his room, Lance slid off the bed slowly, easing himself onto unsteady feet. He shifted his weight from foot to foot experimentally. Gravity seemed more imposing than he remembered. His knees wavered where he stood. He craned his neck around to glare at the vast array of freakish equipment looming ominously over the head of his small bed. He wrinkled his nose and traced the line from his wrist to a saline pouch. He stripped off the tape, hastily disconnecting himself, when a baritone voice barked at him from behind.

“Why are you out of bed?”

His heart leapt in his throat, and the blasted monitor wailed with alarm.

“I…” He spun around, facing a short Arusian nurse with critical, dark eyes. “I… dropped something?”

“Your discharge hasn’t been authorized yet,” she droned dismissively, pointing to the bed.

“Well who is supposed to authorize it?” he snapped. He had half a mind to walk out anyway, even if he was wearing nothing but a sheet… 

“Your supervising officer and the chief physician,” the nurse retorted coolly.

Oh. Shiro. Well, he would sign off on it soon. He had seen his progress.

“And who is this chief physician?” Lance inquired, wiggling his toes and psyching himself up to run for it.

“I am,” the alien replied without looking up from her data pad.

Lance went rigid with embarrassment. “Great,” he groused.

The Chief herself checked his vitals while launching into a dispassionate set of questions. Occasionally she made a disapproving nasal sound and tapped away with a stylus, and Lance grew more irritable by the tick. At the end of her list, she finally asked, “Would you like to be fitted for a prosthesis?”

Lance bristled, giving a curt "No."

“Very well,” she replied, indifferent, and she signed the pad with a flourish. “I’ll send in your commander presently.”

Lance sat blinking, dumbfounded. “Uh… You’re not failing me?”

“I’m not in the business of keeping anyone here against their will,” she said flatly. “And honestly we could use the room.”

Despite her parting promise, Lance felt he could not trust her to release him. The moment the Chief Physician was across the threshold, Lance resumed his efforts to escape. He lumbered off the bed, nearly falling, but when he reached the door, his jaw dropped to find the way already obstructed again. Shiro stood before him, wearing a freshly pressed uniform.

“You’re… going somewhere?” Shiro speculated, quirking a brow. He had a pair of cups in his hand and a steaming kettle in his metallic grip.

“Damn, that was fast,” Lance groped for words. “You’re... here to sign my release form?” he asked hopefully.

“I thought we could have tea first,” Shiro smiled, lifting the kettle.

“Ahh.” Lance was familiar with this gesture. Shiro wanted to _talk_.

Lance hobbled aside and allowed the commander entrance. The door closed with a soft hiss and a pop of hardware, and Shiro observed him warily.

“Should you be out of bed yet?”

Lance wobbled weakly where he stood, but he affected strength and wellness. "Just stretching my legs," he assured him.

Shiro shot a skeptical glance at the monitors, then seemed to switch tactics as he knelt seiza on the floor. "Well I'm glad to see you up and about."

“Yeah, thanks to that innovative Olkari medicine,” Lance said lightly. Shiro concurred with a soft grunt of agreement, and stretched out an arm to suggest Lance join him. Trembling, he obliged his commander with a graceless drop to his knees and tucked his feet beneath him.

“I made green tea. Hope that’s ok,” Shiro’s palms rested against his thighs.

“Sure,” Lance mirrored the posture. “Thank you.”

Both properly seated, Shiro poured for each of them ceremonially, then lifted his cup with his flesh hand. Lance reflexively reached out for his own cup with his right and paused, belatedly recalling his missing appendage. His mouth twisted as he scooped up the vessel with a shaky left. Shiro politely lowered his eyes and indulged his first sip. 

“It can take some time to adjust,” Shiro said gently, absorbed in the contents of his cup.

“I imagine.”

They shared an amiable silence, appreciating the aroma and flavor of their beverage. But Shiro was not one to beat around the bush. Now that they were on level territory, he could say what he had come to say.

“You’re not eating,” he said without preamble. _First blow landed._ A hot flush of shame crept up Lance’s neck unexpectedly, but he composed his facial features and sniffed.

“I think Hunk has been eating enough for all of us.”

Shiro cast a tight-lipped smile into his drink. It didn’t reach his eyes.

“I don’t have much appetite,” Lance admitted after a swallow. “But I’m sure it will come back soon. It’s probably just the drugs.”

Shiro nodded and took another sip before his next glancing blow. “You won’t let them fit you for a prosthesis.”

Lance’s teeth came together, but he took a calming breath and brought the bowl to his lips. “I don't want one.”

Shiro’s eyes snapped up to his, soberly grey. Lance could not meet his gaze directly.

“I understand,” Shiro related. _Parry._ Lance could not bear to revel in it though, and sighed instead. “I know you do.”

They sat quietly for a moment, staring at the tea kettle between them. A thin line of steam curled from the sleek, polished spout. Shiro was pensive.

“I’m... _concerned_ ,” the Champion murmured thoughtfully, watching the steam rise.

Lance had finished off the final dregs of his tea, his attention on the empty vessel in his hand. He did not acknowledge Shiro's last comment.

Shiro appraised the man on his knees before him. He regarded the drainage tube, curling out from under Lance’s gown. The stump of his arm was entirely concealed by his sleeve, somehow exacerbating it's prominence. There were shadows under his bloodshot eyes. _Poured out._

____

____

Shiro deliberated for several doboshes, then finishing his own tea, he eyed Lance squarely.

“Three full meals,” Shiro decided aloud, “Then you can finish recuperating in your dorm.”

“Yes, sir,” Lance said formally, face brightening. “Thank you, sir.”

“Mind, you are _not_ back on duty,” Shiro added sternly.

“Yes, sir.”

“You will stay in your quarters until I allow otherwise.”

“Yes, sir.”

The trademark warmth reached Shiro’s eyes again, his voice full of conviction. “It’ll be good to have you back.”

“You let him go _unsupervised_?” Pidge demanded, incredulous.

“I did,” Shiro replied.

She peered at him through lowered lids. “Do you need to go to sickbay?”

“Stop it, Pidge.”

“Shiro. This is Lance we’re talking about. _Lance. Unsupervised._ ”

“You know I didn’t make the decision lightly,” Shiro rolled his head away from her, casting his eyes to the ceiling as he stalked through the corridor. Pidge practically had to run to stay in stride.

“I know,” she conceded, adapting a tone of compromise. “But was he ready? I’m just worried…”

Shiro came abruptly to a halt, and Pidge nearly crashed into him.

“No, he wasn’t ready. But there’s no such thing,” he snapped, rounding on her.

He should have known better. Conflict only fueled Pidge’s determination.

“This isn't about _you_ ,” she frowned up at him. “This is about what's best for him.”

Shiro’s eyes went wide, then narrowed. "I've _been there_.”

Pidge curled her fists, drawing her shoulders up to her ears. “That's exactly what I'm saying. Just because you shared an experience doesn't mean you know what he needs most!”

The Commander shook his head. “They can't heal everything in the med ward."

“He won't heal at all if you discharge him too soon!”

A small twitch in Shiro’s jaw betrayed his ardent inclination to riposte. Shiro, however, was a model of self-discipline: quick to listen, slow to speak. _Patience yields focus._

Pidge’s shoulders eased down away from her ears, but her fingers stayed balled in frustration. “I know this hits a nerve, and I don’t mean to imply that you’re compounding the problem. But have you considered that releasing him so soon could be _dangerous_...”

“He's like a brother to me. I wouldn't endanger his life, ever.” And before saying anything he might regret, Shiro spun on his heel and stormed away.

Keith sat brooding in the commissary, bent over a bowl of some bland sustenance. He was miserably tired, but rest had been elusive since his return. No one sat or spoke with him, but there was a comfort in the buzz of chatter surrounding him. The Coalition was not making huge strides, but they were holding their own. Lives were being preserved. The fight was worth it, and the energy from this revelation was restoring the life of the rebellion. So he sat, savoring the flavor of his animated surroundings.

When a familiar form whizzed past the nearby window, his head snapped up. The silhouette drew him up like a magnet and out of his introspectiveness. Keith immediately abandoned his meal and made chase down the hall toward the barracks.

“Shiro!” Keith called. The commander slowed his pace but did not stop. Keith matched him for stride now, but did not need to see his face to know that something was amiss. He kept his eyes to the floor and braced himself to inquire.

“What is it? Is it Lance?”

The Champion shook his head. “He’s fine, I've released him from the infirmary.”

Keith was perplexed. “Released him?”

But Shiro did not elaborate. “I’m weary of explaining myself today.” he sighed, finally slowing to a stop.

Keith deftly stepped in front of him. “So you're heading to his dorm?” he guessed. Shiro’s brows came together and the corner of his mouth turned down into a rueful grin.

“Actually I was heading to yours. But it seems you found me first.”

Keith studied him for a moment before turning to head for his quarters. “Come on.”

They shared a wordless walk to the bare dorm room. Keith took the single chair, leaning forward and resting elbows on his knees expectantly. Shiro collapsed onto the bed, dragging his hand across his face.

“Pidge and I had a _disagreement_ ,” he said without preamble. “I lost my temper; she’s pissed at me.”

Keith snorted. “When is she not pissed at someone?”

Shiro’s fondness for Pidge and her disputatious character was made manifest in the brief smile that crossed his features.

“She’ll come around, I’m sure,” Keith said dismissively. “That’s not what’s really bothering you.”

Shiro eyed him sharply. “She opposes my decision to approve Lance’s discharge.”

“I gathered as much.” Keith brazenly met his scrutiny and they sat in silence, reading one another. The unspoken other half of that sentence lay lingering in the air between them. _“I don’t like it either.”_

Shiro did not bother with a mask. Keith was as close to him as they came; He felt splayed open as wide as a book.

“You think it’s best for him?” Keith finally asked.

Shiro dropped his eyes, replying automatically. “He’s recovering quickly, the Olkari technologies are far superior to…”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Shiro took a steadying breath. “Well if the shoe isn’t on the other foot,” he observed. “The irony.”

The former red paladin leaned against the backrest of his chair and pressed bruised knuckles against his cupid’s bow. Shiro could discern no disrespect from the young man. He could be pert, and assertive perhaps, but never insubordinate. Not to him.

“I just... wonder what you’re thinking,” Keith replied softly. “This isn’t really like you.”

Shiro's brows pinched with sudden pain. “I don’t see why. You know I’d do the same for you.”

In abrupt and typical fashion, Keith dropped a fast one. “Would you?”

Shiro’s eyes shot open with mild surprise. He matched Keith’s scrutiny. “You doubt it?”

Keith held his gaze. “I might.”

The Champion deeply considered this response before he perceived an opening in their stalemate. “You’d do it for me.”

Once corner of Keith’s mouth turned down in evident displeasure. “We are not talking about me,” he said in a low voice.

“You’re right,” Shiro agreed, a new edge to his words. “ _We’re not_.”

A light rap sounded at the door to Lance's barracks - for courtesy only, as it was required to remain unlocked - and Lance pushed himself to a seated position on the bed, his mouth agape as Keith’s figure appeared on his threshold. Only moments before, Keith had leapt to his feet in his own quarters, insisting that he and Shiro pay Lance a spontaneous social call, motivated by the discomfort of their impasse.

“Oh, sorry, were you asleep?” Keith asked in a hushed voice. But instead of backing out of the room, he stepped purposefully toward the only seat and dropped onto it, arms crossed. Shiro wandered in behind him, wearing an unreadable expression.

“I... ah, no, actually,” Lance answered, self-consciously tucking the blue gown tighter around himself. His eyes darted between the two uninvited guests; the room was practically thrumming with agitation.

Shiro settled cross-legged on the small floor with as much dignity as he could muster. “Sorry to disturb you,” he apologized tersely.

Lance gave a shrug and wiggled back against the pillow. Keith’s eyes had dropped to the tubes dangling off the bed, then cut to Shiro, flashing with accusation. Shiro steadfastly kept his own eyes on Lance, stubbornly ignoring his companion.

Lance pretended not to notice this bizarre exchange and flung the coverlet back across himself - and the tubes - but not before Shiro caught sight of an alarming pink stain on his gown.

Lance diverted their attention, his tone sardonic. “So. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Shiro turned to Keith, clearly transferring the burden.

“We were just… wondering how long since you last ate something?” Keith tried conversationally. “I mean, we thought we could bring something up for you.”

“I just ate, not too long ago,” Lance shook his head. “You know Hunk.”

Keith’s mouth popped open, intending to retort that Hunk hadn't even been on base for the last quintant, but Shiro interjected.

“That’s good. You need your strength.”

Keith's dark eyes went wide with disbelief, but Shiro paid him no heed. He was very well aware that Hunk was not on base. The three brooded through an awkward silence. Lance wasn’t sure he had the gall to call them out on their behavior, already engrossed by other, more substantial discomforts since before they even arrived. However, wanting to be absolved of at least one nagging pain, he decided to guess at the reason for their impromptu visit.

“Did you guys come to talk about Red?” he asked softly.

Shiro reflexively straightened. “Well, no…”

“A decision needs to be made,” Lance cut in, “The Coalition needs her in the fight.”

Keith bent forward and spread his hands in a gesture of peacekeeping. “That’s not why we are here,” he started, but Lance continued.

“I can’t pilot,” he stated flatly. “And I can’t shoot.”

Shiro’s pawns of reason and influence were already in motion. “But with time and a prosthesis…”

Lance’s eyes were the staunch blue of an unyielding sea. “Permission to speak freely, sir?”

Shiro frowned and nodded.

“Respectfully," Lance amended. "You and I both know we don’t _have_ time, Commander.” He then directed this powerful gaze to Keith, who sat glumly with his elbows on his knees. “We can’t afford to waste time commiserating with me and my... misfortunes.” _And we can’t afford to lose any more lives_ , he didn’t say aloud. 

Shiro chewed the inside of his cheek, mulling over the words spoken and not.

“Are you saying you want me to step in?” Keith asked bluntly. “To pilot Red?”

“You’ve done it before,” Lance answered him levelly. “The bond can be re-established.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” Keith’s eyes shot up to meet his.

Lance held his gaze, released a breath, and said firmly, “Yes. I want you to fly Red again. The team needs her.”

“But can the Blades afford it now, to be one man down?” Shiro posed the question to Keith, whose expression was hard. “And what about the Black Lion?”

“They will have to,” he said simply. Then, "Both of us will have to make some sacrifices."

Shiro smoothed his flesh hand over his face, looking haggard. "You're inferring that I pilot _again._ "

__

__

Lance seemed to deflate now. His eyes fell to his lap and he repeated himself, sounding fatigued. "It's been done before."

"We didn't have the _Atlas_ before," Shiro replied as he tipped his head, unwilling to concede so easily.

Keith locked his fingers together and nodded solemnly. "But we are talking about a _temporary_ transfer of roles here. The Atlas will be fine for a short while longer with her second-in-command at the helm."

The three were quiet for a spell after that statement, considering the weight of this decision. Then Keith turned his attention to Lance again, although Lance did not lift his head.

"This will only be temporary." Keith pushed up on to his feet and reached Lance's bedside in one fluid sweep. A heavy breath left him before he squeezed Lance's shoulder reassuringly. "I'll need my right hand man back in the fight."

“Then it’s decided,” Shiro turned back to the resident patient with a sad but grateful smile. It was then that he detected the sheen on Lance’s face and the tightness of his mouth. He hesitated for a brief moment before asking outright, “Are you in pain?”

Lance scowled and straightened at Shiro’s perceptiveness. He stalled. “Define pain.”

Shiro made a dubious face, and Lance felt as though the original question were a figurative check, Shiro already playing across the board of his thoughts. He considered the consequences of his next answer carefully.

“What will happen to me if I say yes?” Lance submitted tentatively. His visitors exchanged another wordless argument, eyes only.


	4. Death, for the sake of Victory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poor Shiro can't catch a break from the women in his life. :)
> 
> Takes place just prior to Chapter 2, _Dust and Water_.
> 
> Contains spoilers for Season 8.

_Keith was clear._

There was no time for relief to set in. It was mere ticks before shots were returned in Lance's precise direction, fragments of shale showering down on him in the perch with each narrowly missed hit. His breath came faster, and he returned fire in time with it.

The deafening drone of a Galra horde thundered overhead. Heavy fighter gunfire pelted past him and peppered the nearby forest spires. Agitated orders and requests from comrades buzzed in his ear. In the midst of so many distractions, a strange keening sound caught his attention, like the drag of a ship in descent. His eyes flashed to the skies, but with a pang of dread he realized the shots from his unidentified targets on the ground had ceased. His position was compromised, so the Galra must be on approach by foot. They switched battle maneuvers frequently; this came as no surprise.

But the Galra species also preferred to end a fight quickly. For them there is only _victory or death_. The distant wailing amplified, and in choosing _death_ for the sake of _victory_ \- Lance glanced up once more - a lone Galra Fighter had deliberately broken formation and was speeding headlong toward his spire.

From the helm of the Atlas, Allura tracked the swarms of Galra fighters and directed support. She had seen the single ship peel away from the collective and careen into the mysterious forest below. At first she only glanced toward the anomaly, supposing engine failure, and preoccupied with the enemy fighters harrassing the Blade troops at the cannon. Then her sinking gut bade her take a second look. Vague sparks of intrigue burst into flames of horror as she recognized the trajectory and the patch of colossal towers from her scans.

“Veronica -!”

But her heart twisted as she watched the starboard wing of the enemy fighter clip a smaller tapered structure. The spacecraft lapsed into a tailspin, smashing clean through two other formations.

_“Lance!”_ She cried, and Veronica echoed her, protocol abandoned.

The remains of the vessel made contact with the surface, gouging a wicked furrow into the forest floor as it skid to a stop. Then the steeples began to crumble.

Shiro, now alerted to the situation, found his voice and was paging Lance in earnest from his station in the Black Lion. “Tailor Four, do you read?! Tailor Four! Get out of there now! I repeat, _abandon post now!_ ”

An ominous groan from one great tower caused gunfire to pause on both sides. It revolved and slowly fell with colossal force, splintering into the forest floor from the base upward.

Shiro tried again. “Lance _get out!_ ”

Veronica and Iverson were on the comms, alerting all ground troops to the imminent danger and ordering the evacuation. Lance made no reply. Allura bore down against the terminal, rooted to the spot by a paralyzing sensation. The spires continued to disintegrate, casting dust and debris, like so many souls being birthed out of the destruction. 

All hands debated their next move.

"...a medvac crew..."

"...don't have his location now!"

"...aerial survey..."

Veronica surged to her feet in Allura's stead and appealed to Shiro for assistance finding her brother. A terse exchange of information took place, Iverson was spitting coordinates in a heartbeat, and Shiro gave the affirmative.

"Belay that order," Allura said suddenly, her gaze boring into the viewport. "And patch me through to Hunk."

Veronica turned hard eyes to the Altean. "A search on ground will take _too long_..."

"Hunk knew the location of the perch."

_"I'm already en route."_

_"I_ am at the helm, at _your_ request, Shirogane!" Allura snarled. "You see to your operations, and I will see to mine!" 

###### 

It wasn't long before the Green Lion came to Keith in the forest, her cloaking allowing her to sweep in undetected for an easy rescue. Pidge practically tripped down the ramp after him, stray tears streaking her visor. He brought himself upright just before she crashed into him.

"Quiznak, I'm so glad you're safe!" she declared, her voice trembling as much as her embracing arms. Then she pulled back, voice urgent. "Keith, it's Lance..."

Keith stumbled against her, his good hand bearing the weight of his useless one. "I know, I know; we have to go find him _now_."

Pidge gave her helmeted head a vicious shake, hefting her katar with one hand and grasping his wrists with the other. "Allura sent Hunk to find him," she sniffed between words while making quick work of his cuffs, "He's already on the ground."

Keith opened his mouth to convey his regret, but shots sprayed down upon them from somewhere above. Pidge's blue shield snapped into place instantly, and she covered them as she half dragged him into the refuge of her vessel. Once inside, she bolted for the cockpit. 

"I have orders to get you back to the Atlas," she explained, punching the controls and re-activating the cloaking system. 

"Orders from who?" Keith grunted, staggering after her. 

" _Both_ of them!" she snapped, "So don't argue!"

They lifted off, and Keith collapsed on the floor beside her chair, hanging his head.

Pidge had already moved past her tears and was back to her ill temper to cope with the stress. "Allura was right," she groused, spinning them away from the firefight. "We shouldn't have grounded any of the Lions. It's too much going on at once for the Atlas to cover from this distance."

"It's on me," Keith despaired.

Pidge stiffened, realizing her words were effectively placing the blame on him. "Keith, you didn't make the decision alone. And it's CATFUd, but if Lance weren't there, you..."

"Would be _dead_. I would be dead instead of..."

The Green Paladin cut him off impatiently. " _Don't_ do that, Keith."

"It was _my_ call," he whispered. "It was my fault. If Lance doesn't make it...."

"Look," Pidge was suddenly there, crouched in front of him. She removed her helmet and dropped it on the floor, leaning in to his face and speaking in low and earnest tones. "Keith, when we found out about the explosive, I thought for sure..." her lip quivered enough to break off her speech, but she stifled the sob before it could escape her control. "It doesn't matter. You are miraculously alive." She grasped the back of his neck and practically shook him, willing her next words to get through, to be true. "Who says the same can't be said for Lance?"

Keith tried to avoid her eyes. "We can't get that lucky twice. Not in the same day."

"You are not allowed to talk like that, Team Leader," Pidge chided him. "With as much dumb luck as we've had in the past, you know better."

Keith gave a humorless laugh. "We should help Hunk and join the search for Lance," he said instead. "We can use your cloaking."

But Pidge cut him down without any mercy. "You're _injured_ , who knows to what extent, and I'm not hauling around _both_ your asses by myself." She leaned even closer and punctuated this statement by knocking her forehead into his. "If anyone has the will to find him, it's Hunk."

Then she was back in the pilot seat, navigating toward the protection of the Atlas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a headcannon that Allura had the ability to pilot the IGF-Atlas. I don't intend to take her from Shiro - I love that she belongs to Shiro, and I truly love reading other fanfictions about him being the exclusive pilot. But being so much a part of its creation, and being so much a part of Shiro's recovery, I always felt that Allura would have some kind of special privilege when it came to the Atlas. So indulge me. :)
> 
> Also, this chapter is shorter than others, but the next one will make up for it.


	5. The Wicked Edge of Grief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one gets a Mature rating for adult themes, self-injury, and language. Sorry guys. :(
> 
> Lance is not a good patient, and he takes some things into his own hand. 
> 
> Takes place after Chapter 3, _Poured Out_.

A tentative knock sounded on Lance's door, and Matthew Holt politely waited for the verbal go-ahead before entering his dorm. He smuggled in a tin of sweets and two sodas, which he brandished with an air of cunning stealth.

Lance gave a drowsy grin at the sight of him. "Matt!"

"You look terrible," the elder Holt sibling disclosed, eyes sweeping from the drainage tubes to Lance's ashen face, fixing briefly on his stump, then quickly back to his face again. "They told me you were in rough shape, but _damn_."

Lance rolled his eyes. "You're no sight for sore eyes either, you bastard."

Matt made quick work of removing his shoes at the door and crossed the room, grasping Lance by the forearm. His smile was tired but genuine. "It's good to see you."

"It's good to see you, too, man," Lance told him. "Now help a cripple out."

Matt braced the proffered arm and Lance used it to haul himself into an upright position. Lance sighed when he was settled. "I know you're busy as hell, so what brings you here?"

"Eh, it's true," Matt bobbed his head, helping himself to one of the treats. "N7 is on my ass on the regular. I can't keep up with it all, but none of us really can."

"Shiro knows you're capable," Lance assured him, leaning back into the headboard. "You're _Pidge's_ brother." Lance closed his eyes, still gesturing with his hand. "I mean, I know he lets me stick around because I'm _Veronica's_ brother, but he's only terrified of her. He's scared _shitless_ of Pidge." He cracked one eye open at Matt then. "Really, _who isn't?_ But if you can handle Pidge, leading the Rebel Fighters is a cake-walk."

Matt chuckled as he dragged the chair to Lance's bedside, shrugging. "Yeah, you have a point. _But_ ," he leaned in to whisper conspiratorially, "it's actually 'cuz I'm _Colleen Holt's_ son."

Lance nodded sagely. "Pidge takes after _her._ "

Taking his seat, Matt popped a soda can and passed it to him, lowering his voice and saying severely, "We are pawns in a world of frightfully powerful queens."

Lance raised his beverage in a toast. "To the queens."

Conversation was easy between them for a while. They asked about each other's families, and after they caught up on the subjects that mattered, Matt went quiet. Lance casually stretched across the alcove of his bed to a niche and selected a small bottle, unscrewing it with his teeth and shaking a couple of pills into his lap.

Matt's gaze wandered from the prescription to Lance's right shoulder before redirecting to the line of different bottles on the shelf. He resolutely avoided the nearby drainage reservoir.

"I know you're still recovering and all," Matt said soberly, brushing his blonde ponytail back from his shoulder, "but I was hoping you could tell me what happened."

Lance grimaced as he swallowed, gesturing to himself. "The abridged version is: I got wrecked. Lost my arm, can't shoot, can't pilot."

Matt returned the expression. "I'm sorry."

It was Lance's turn to shrug, but somehow the gesture felt lost in translation.

"You wanna talk about it?" Matt offered tentatively, his eyes kind.

Lance's gaze fell to his navel, the empty can crumpling softly in his hand. "If I knew what to say, sure. But I don't."

Matt allowed this statement to drift and settle between them, floating like a brittle leaf to the floor. Neither of them seemed uncomfortable with the tranquility of wordless space there, so they embraced the moment. There lay some vulnerability just under the surface, but the brink of exposure seemed as natural as the shedding of layers between seasons.

Lance opened his hand and the can tipped onto its side soundlessly. He scratched at his nose and shifted in the bed. 

"Look at Shiro," Matt went on to suggest. "You could get a cool implant or something."

"I'm not Shiro." This declaration was made with a tone of defeat, and Matt noticed. He crossed his arms and leaned back in the chair, lifting his eyes to the ceiling thoughtfully. "No, and you don't have to be. You're _you_. And I don't think _you're_ ready to bow out of this fight. Not yet anyway."

Lance mulled over this observation. When he didn't say anything, Matt continued.

"Neither of us are here just because of Shiro," he reasoned, and with a side-eye glance, he added, "Nor our sisters." Then the wrinkles formed at the corners of his eyes as he laughed. "Hell, not even just because of my mother or father, and _trust_ me, I'm still struggling to come to terms with that one."

Lance felt the contagious smile spread to his own face as he watched his friend reveal his thoughts.

" _I'm_ here," Matt decided, then corrected, "I'm _still_ here - because of them, yes - but also, specifically _for_ them. And my friends. And primarily, for myself. Because I _want_ to be."

Lance turned to behold the amber eyes behind this revelation. The honesty there was unerring. "I want to be here," Matt repeated, not breaking their connection. "I want to stay in the fight. And I know you do, too."

"It's true," Lance conceded. "But all my friends and family have suffered a lot."

Matt tucked another sweet inside his cheek. " _You_ have suffered a lot."

Lance nodded, and his gaze inverted. "It was just my turn."

Matt didn't like the sound of that, and his expression showed it. "You didn't deserve it. This doesn't _have_ to beat you."

Lance glared down at the foot of his bed, directing his flare of anger away from his friend, knowing he didn't mean to insult him. The words still stung. "It already has," he said bitterly.

Matt chewed for a moment, clearly considering the merit of his next words. Something flashed across his features and he took a deep breath, brushing away the last of his reservations. 

"I lost a friend," Matt said softly. "We ran a lot of missions together. We grew close. She had a lot to lose - so much she _did_ lose, but still she fought. She was my inspiration, you know? She never gave up." Matt turned his eyes to Lance then, grief beginning to twist the lines of his face. "She had two kids," he resumed, but his voice had abandoned him, and he hissed the rest on an exhale. "I don't know how it ended for her."

Lance's lips parted then, and his head jerked abruptly toward him, apprehension coiling inside him like a serpent ready to strike.

"Would you tell me?" Matt pleaded, not looking at him.

"You knew her," Lance whispered.

Matt's lips pressed together apologetically, and he blinked his confirmation. "Please."

" _That's_ why you're here."

" _Not_ exclusively. But yes."

Lance turned his face away, feeling the traitorous tears prick at his eyes. Matt, who could sense his opportunity to learn the truth slipping away, tried to switch tactics.

"Her kids - they don't know yet. I know she died bravely, with honor. But I just want to know how it happened, before I have to have _that_ conversation... with them."

Sylvio and Nadia's faces grinned wide and toothy in Lance's memory. Sorrow gripped him. "You _can't_ tell them my story." Lance insisted, shaking his head. " _I can't_ tell it." He was straining across the bed again. He snatched another bottle and struggled with the top. 

"I wouldn't tell them the details," Matt vowed. "But for my own closure..."

"I think you should leave," Lance said abruptly, doling out another dose - a different color this time. His hand was trembling, and Matt's face fell.

"I'm sorry," he told him sincerely. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have..."

Lance was raking through the pile of capsules with his fingers, seeming confused, while Matt suddenly came to his senses.

"Wait - didn't you _just_ take..."

Lance howled with frustration and launched the bottle across the room into the wall opposite, where it fell to the floor and rolled into a corner. "I overslept!" he rasped, frantically rattling another bottle and scrutinizing the label. "I think I'm behind on my dosage."

Matt tipped forward onto his knees to help him collect the spilled medicine, reacting automatically to his panic. "Which one do you need? I can help."

"I-I dunno! I might have taken the wrong one."

"Are you looking for painkillers?" Matt asked, peering at the labels. He murmured some of the names to himself, then inspected one of the pills. "Shit. Lance, someone should be..."

But he paused mid-sentence, frowning, then leapt to his feet with decision.

" _Why_ aren't you in the hospital?"

Matt had ratted him out, then bailed on him.

Lance supposed he was grateful, because a human physician came to Lance's room with a more immediate solution for the pain, and Matt was no longer there to press him about Olia. But nothing ever came without its disadvantages.

"How long have these sutures been infected?" The physician demanded, kneeling to examine the surgical site.

Lance's chuffed out a pained and irritated snort. "How am I supposed to know?"

"You should have notified someone when the pain got worse," he supplied.

"I haven't _not_ been in pain," Lance growled.

"I think these are doing more harm than good now," the medic murmured, considering the drainage system.

A brief return to the med ward for a second examination confirmed the verdict. The tubes needed to come out, and a quick procedure was arranged. After treating the infection, a nurse suggested that Lance stay for observation, but he flat out refused.

Shiro acquiesced to Lance’s appeal for sanctuary yet again, allowing him to receive hospital grade pain medication in his room for two more quintants. Shiro had commissioned Pidge to monitor the medication, and Lance swore to submit to re-evaluation by the powers-that-be at the infirmary - if he needed pain management beyond that allotted time.

So it was 8 vargas later that Shiro’s wrist comm buzzed in the middle of a meeting. Ordinarily he didn’t take messages, but a disturbing image preview bid him to step out and telephone Pidge immediately. She railed into him the moment she answered.

“That was Lance’s _half naked ass_ wandering the halls.”

When Shiro did not respond, Pidge mercilessly elaborated. "The _wrong_ naked half." 

_“What?”_

“You heard me. I did _not_ need to see that this morning.”

Shiro pinched the scarred bridge of his nose, bolting for the dormitories.

“Damnit, I’m on my way…”

“No need. I took care of it. But we need to have a conversation about this. _Today_ , Shiro.”

She ended the call, and Shiro’s shoulders dropped before he turned back to the conference room with a shudder. He could brave many things, but facing the vexed Green Paladin put his metaphorical tail between his legs, Admiral or not.

As it turned out, Lance had ventured out of his room in the fog of a chemical high. Unfortunately for Pidge, she had discovered him first, and was able to usher him back to his quarters before he had gone beyond the hall.

Shiro arranged for Allura to stay with Lance while allowing Pidge and the rest of the team to harangue him in his own office.

“He was delirious. He had no idea where he was! He is not well enough to be on his own if he has to be drugged up, and I can't be two places at once! He should go back to sickbay.”

Keith concurred with a soft grunt.

Hunk’s holo-presence as mediator was Shiro’s only saving grace.

_“I don’t disagree with you, not entirely, but Shiro has a point - Lance was wasting away in sickbay. I saw it myself.”_

“As if to say he’s doing well where he is!” Pidge squeaked crossly.

“We plan to re-evaluate once the painkillers are through his system.” Shiro reasoned. “He at least deserves another chance.”

"You say that as if this is Lance's fault." Keith bristled in a low voice.

Poor choice of words. Shiro rolled his eyes and tried again. "He deserves for us to do _better_."

“Then you need to assign someone to _watch_ him,” Pidge jabbed a finger at him. “And it _can’t be you_.”

On-screen Hunk flexed his jaw and gave a tight nod in Shiro’s direction. _“I agree with her on that one. You’re overseeing too many other things.”_

Shiro nodded stiffly, gaze on his desk.

Pidge’s hands shot up defensively. “I had my turn.”

“I’ll do it,” Hunk offered without hesitation, but the Admiral pressed his knuckles against his mouth regretfully.

“The Garrison needs those satellite repairs finished,” he muttered under his fingers. “I can’t take you off the project, even briefly.”

Shiro considered the available options grimly. All crews and teams were spread thin as it was. Veronica came to mind, but he was loathe to think of the two siblings confined to a small space together for long. Shiro turned instead to Keith, who sat quietly fulminating in the corner.

“I won’t ask as your Commander,” he said softly. “It’s not an order. I only ask as your friend.”

Keith gave no quarter in regard to his new mission, valiantly agreeing to nearly an entire quintant of delinquent supervision. Allura consented to stand in whenever Keith needed sleep.

Once sufficiently sobered, Lance was briefed of this new arrangement. He lay glowering at the blurred, pulsing ceiling.

“No one has to babysit me,” he grumbled. “I promised I wouldn't leave again.”

“You lost your chance,” Keith countered dryly, taking up his post on the solitary chair. “That’s what happens when you piss off Pidge.”

It was like this for the first varga of his watch, one of them generally firing off some disgruntled remark, the other reciprocating. Keith otherwise occupied himself by cleaning his knife and composing his formal report from their botched mission. But Lance spent most of the time simply sleeping, as Keith had expected.

In fact, he had to wake Lance for every meal, and to administer regular doses of nerve block. At the start, he governed these responsibilities with austerity. But each time, Keith’s demeanor softened by consecutive degrees as he observed the weary way Lance hung his head or met those hollow eyes.

Keith had initially resolved to remain suspicious of Shiro’s foolhardy arrangement. But like his body, that commitment seemed to sag with fatigue during the long stretches of stillness and quiet between “events”. Lance didn’t seem to be doing any better, but now Keith also began to doubt sickbay would offer any other benefit.

There were occasional moments where he had to intervene with physical help. After one fitful nap, Lance had drunkenly clambered out of the bed and lurched into a wall, causing Keith to surge to his feet and snag him by the elbow. Lance had startled at the touch.

“You alright?” Keith asked, steadying him.

Lance’s pupils were blown wide, and he grunted something incoherent before giving a tight nod. Keith held on to him warily a moment before redirecting him toward the bathroom.

After that, he was too much in his own thoughts and had lost track of the time.

Lance lay dozing, beholding the ceiling in his usual sullen silence. Keith stretched his legs out across the floor, likewise scrutinizing the plain canvas above them. He had spent vargas reflecting on his mission report, on this absurd situation, on Lance's melancholy, and Shiro’s strange stubbornness. Keith finally decided to speak his mind.

"I meant what I said," he said abruptly, but not unkindly. "When I said I need you back in the fight."

Lance glanced at him drowsily and gave a snort of amusement.

"I'm serious. We need our sharpshooter back on the team."

Lance made no comment.

“And you saved my life,” Keith continued, his voice dropping an octave . “I… haven’t thanked you.”

He was not used to heart-to-hearts, and treading this unfamiliar territory was clearly uncomfortable for both of them. But his gratitude was earnest. Lance remained deathly silent, to the point that Keith wondered if he had drifted off again.

“You’re welcome,” Lance eventually replied. “I’m glad I was able.”

Keith watched the ceiling again and considered paging Allura when the fine lines of the plaster took on the shape of an Arusian warrior, but his limbs went slack on the floor before he could.

Lance lay staring at the former Red Paladin, fast asleep on his bedroom floor, and reflected on their last exchange. He was able to save Keith. And he was glad; it was true. But it was better when they bickered. Now Keith pitied him, and Lance couldn’t stand it.

A flicker of light caught his attention, and he spied the hilt of Keith’s Marmoran blade, snugly sheathed in leather on the floor beside his open hand.

Lance blinked, watching it more closely. Allura had once told him that a Marmoran Agent shared a vital connection with their weaponry. But his head was fuzzy, and his sight more so, an effect of the painkillers. Perhaps he had imagined it.

Sure enough, after a moment, the luxite somehow _pulsed_ violet - an ethereal heartbeat - shining with the very life-force of its wielder.

Lance crawled out of bed and onto his knees, somehow drawn to the dagger. It lay winking at him, mocking his reception of Keith’s gratitude.

He was able to save Keith, and he took the shot. But he was able to save Olia too. And he _didn't_.

_I advise that you not waste it._

He reached out impulsively to grasp the knife. Keith’s breath continued evenly in sleep as Lance eased it from the scabbard. The wicked edge gave a soft sigh as it was freed from the leather binding. Lance touched it with a fingertip reverently.

“Vrepit sa,” he had said, before she died.

It glinted again.

His self-control unraveled, and he took the knife by the hilt. He hobbled his way to the bathroom, locked the door with a resolute click, and opened the shower valve.

He turned the knife over in his hand contemplatively for a long while, pondering whether it were true that some forms of pain could alleviate others. Perhaps it was mostly curiosity, or desperation, or guilt, but some combination of forces bade him to go further.

A single thud on the door preceded Keith’s sarcastic call from the other side, thick with sleep.

“Hey, did you fall or something?”

But Lance was beyond hearing him. His heart was fluttering, protesting its confinement to his body, demanding to be freed before it could follow Olia.

“Lance?”

The door pounded, echoing his heart with slower but stronger beats.

Keith was used to the proverbial _bad feeling_ by now. Years of misfortune and war had honed his senses enough for him to know when something was wrong. He managed to kick the door in, panic lending a rush of focused energy.

His hackles were up the moment he spied Lance curled in the corner of the shower floor, a smear of blood across his face. Hot water sprayed down on his legs from overhead, and the air was thick with steam.

“Lance!”

A small stream of blood pooled into the drain with the flow of water. Keith crashed onto his knees beside him and felt for signs of life. “Lance, talk to me!”

Lance was not responsive, but he had a pulse, and was breathing.

Keith tapped an urgent page to Shiro from his wrist comm, then sought the source of the bleeding. Supposing a slip and fall, he examined Lance’s face and head first, taking care not to move his neck beyond what was necessary. The blood across his nose and eyes didn’t appear to have a local source. Hastily Keith surveyed the stump of Lance’s arm, and then his head again, baffled. No head wounds, no open stitches.

By now he was soaked through, and he slammed the water controls off. He knew he was angry with himself, knew Shiro would be disappointed that this happened on his watch. However he couldn't let those thoughts distract him now.

Lance still wore his hospital gown, which perplexed him. _Wasn’t he showering?_ Keith hedged over whether it would be appropriate to remove it and inspect the surgical site, but it seemed an audacious invasion of privacy. _Should he wait for help to arrive?_ Before Keith could peel the gown fully aside, an object plopped into the shallow pool from the concealing folds of Lance’s lap. It was his own Marmoran blade, unsheathed.

Keith seized the wet knife, and his face pinched with anger. “You took my...”

Then his belly went taut with dread as understanding dawned. “ _No_ -”

His indecision evaporated. He tugged the shroud off, scanning the major artery paths of Lance’s body until he discovered a pattern of shallow cuts, more than a dozen above the knee. Following the trail up revealed a much deeper laceration along the inner thigh.

“Fuck!”

Keith was up instantly, thrashing about the bathroom in wild search of something to use as a dressing.

“Fuck, _fuck!_!"

Things clattered to the floor from a cabinet, and then Keith was upon Lance again. He tied off a makeshift tourniquet and wrapped a towel around the deepest wound before clamping his hand on it. He leaned forward, pressing all his body weight down.

Lance began to stir, eyelids twitching. Incited by this, Keith clapped him repeatedly on the jaw with his free hand.

“Wake up you _bastard!_ ” he snarled under his breath.

Shiro responded to Keith’s page, and Keith roared into the comm. “I need help _now!_ Send a medic!”

Shiro had the good sense not to waste time asking what exactly took place, but he soon arrived in person, hot on the heels of the Balmeran EMT he summoned.

 _“What happened now?”_ the Champion asked brusquely from the bathroom doorway, unable to see Lance behind the two men on their haunches.

“Bleeding out,” Keith ground out through his teeth. “I don’t know how long.”

 _“How?”_ Shiro demanded, even knowing a sufficient explanation would not be immediately forthcoming. The medic was calmly checking vitals and evaluating the extent of injury.

“We shall lay him flat,” the Balmeran decided quickly, directing them to help. “Pray, keep pressure there, try not to move it. Sir, please come take his arm here. We lift together, carefully.”

After coordinating the safest way to move him, the three of them hauled Lance’s body out of the shower and shuffled to his bunk.

Once Lance was settled, Shiro heaved a weighted breath, and Keith finally dared to face him, his expressions twisting between horror and rage.

“He did it, with _my_ knife.” Keith said bitterly.

A hover gurney came to collect Lance shortly after. The number of persons present had doubled in the last 20 doboshes, including an irate Pidge, a baffled Allura, another physician, and an officer in charge of questioning. But Shiro seemed deaf to them all, the line of his shoulders stern and his eyes grave.

Keith had collapsed to the floor in fatigue, trembling after the adrenaline rush. Allura crouched beside him, a hand on his wet shoulder while a physician and an officer took turns berating him with questions.

The Balmeran was assuring Shiro that the injury would not be life-threatening. Keith had found him in time. Even so, Shiro’s heart wrenched in his breast as the medic fastened Lance’s wrist and ankles to the bedrail of his stretcher.

“Court martial?!” Keith spluttered in disbelief.

Pidge’s fierce gaze blazed on Shiro, and all eyes in the room followed suit. “You can’t allow it!” she wailed defiantly.

Shiro did not spare them a glance. “Self Injury,” he clarified, tone clipped. "Technically misconduct." His fingers curled into fists as they carted Lance slowly down the hall.

“Shiro,” Keith rasped, looking distraught. But their Admiral stalked out of the room without another word.

Allura sat in bewildered silence.

“How does this keep getting worse?” Pidge growled.

Lance jerked awake on a cot in a small, bright room. Gloved hands were fastened on his thigh, uncomfortably close. Reflexively, he made to squirm away, and the hands clamped tighter to still him. He found his wrist and ankles were tied. He squinted up at the two females who had hold of him. Had circumstances been different, he might have found this rather alluring. As it was, however...

“Nicely done, _that_.” An all-too-familiar Puigan gestured to his thigh, a curved needle in her fingers. “Nearly deep enough for _two_ sets.” Her assistant stood by wordlessly, bent over their work.

Lance dropped his head back defeatedly. “Quiznak,” he breathed.

The Puigan fixed him with a scathing look, something venomous on her tongue, but she decided to leave her next words unspoken. She resumed her stitching without any further comments, and by the time she had finished, a corrections officer came to retrieve him.

Lance chose to appear before Shiro, unable to stand at attention and feeling absurd in a wheelchair. Ashamed and light headed, he managed to straighten his shoulders and make eye contact with the Admiral the moment he stepped in, raising his only arm in a trembling salute. 

If Shiro felt anger or pity toward him, he did not show it. Shiro kept it brief and indifferent, outlining his misconduct as self-injury and his right to request a court martial. Lance only briefly considered it; the terms Shiro offered were generous.

So Lance submitted quietly, offering no resistance as they wheeled him to the sanatorium to serve the first part of his correctional custody. He wasn't allowed visitors for 3 quintants, subjected to round-the-clock surveillance. Meals and meds came regularly. And after the enforced period of solitude had passed, he was allowed his first familiar visitor.

Hunk had schooled his face and promised Pidge to keep his expression in check. But it still took his breath away to enter the confines and meet face-to-face with the shell of his old friend.

He took a seat beside the resident inmate, who avoided meeting his eyes. Hunk took in his stooped shoulders, missing arm, and gaunt cheekbones. He was hardly recognizable.

“Lance.” Hunk greeted carefully.

“Hunk.” Lance returned the courtesy, his voice brittle.

It only took one word. Hunk swallowed audibly, his throat wet with unshed emotion.

“It hurts, man. To see you like this.”

The former Paladin let go a shaky exhale but said nothing.

“I don't know what to say,” Hunk continued, words tumbling out. “You know, to help. I-I'm not - I didn't come here to... Well, when I heard what happened, I was crushed, to know you're in so much _pain._ ”

Bless him; Hunk was inherently good.

“I don’t know what to say either,” Lance assured him, offering the only olive branch he had. “But it’s so good to see you.”

A tentative smile split across the downcast face of his old bunkmate.

“The others really want to see you too,” Hunk shared. “Pidge has been harassing the corrections staff, trying to pull _rank_.” He chuckled and shook his head. “Hasn’t worked yet.”

“She’ll get her way, somehow,” Lance shrugged, chewing his lip. “Then I’ll be in trouble.”

Hunk sniffed in amused agreement. “You have _no_ idea.”

As soon as he said it, though, he regretted his words. It didn’t seem like Lance could be in more dire circumstances, Pidge’s great wrath aside. Hunk used their pause in conversation to really look at him again. Lance clutched his stump, his knee bouncing nervously. He appeared to have lost even more weight since his stay in the medcenter. Hunk chose to investigate. “So. How have they been treating you?”

“Like an invalid.”

Hunk dropped his eyes, and Lance expounded.

“Don’t worry, Hunk. They feed me plenty, and they don’t beat me. They give me my medication and they leave me alone.” He pointed to a discreet camera in the ceiling corner. “They watch me closely, make sure I don’t try anything stupid.”

Hunk gave the device a wary sidelong glance.

“ _What_ do they feed you?” he murmured, sounding doubtful.

Lance’s face had gone blank, and then he actually barked out laughter. It sounded foreign. “ _Huh._ I actually don’t know.”

Hunk frowned. “So they just... leave you in here?”

“I’m _detained_ , Hunk. I’m not on vacation.”

Hunk felt himself blanch - stupid question - but Lance backpedaled.

“I’ve been escorted to a shrink’s office a couple of times, down the hall.”

Hunk’s head bobbed thoughtfully. “Is it helping?”

For the first time since Hunk entered the room, Lance looked him in the eye. Hunk straightened, and Lance’s mouth twisted sourly.

“What do you think?”

Hunk chose to assume it was a rhetorical question.

“So what else do you do to pass the time?”

Lance rubbed at the stub of his arm absently. Perhaps it ached.

“Sleep,” he said miserably. “I’m catching up on all those hours we lost as cadets.”

It didn’t suit him, Hunk thought, to look so grievous. He longed to see a glimmer of his old friend, and in a moment of quick wit, Hunk gestured to the camera with an outstretched hand.

“Tell me you don’t jerk off while they’re watching.”

Lance didn’t miss a beat; he scowled at Hunk and held up his left hand pointedly.

After gauging each other for an awkward moment, they both snuffled with laughter like adolescents under a blanket. It helped to thaw the ice fist that had lodged itself in Hunk’s chest. Since his first day of knowing him, pulling pranks at the Galaxy Garrison as a teen, Lance was always causing trouble. The Yellow Paladin chose to take a small comfort in that. Lance was still Lance: he was simply in a different kind of trouble.

“We can get through this, man,” Hunk said after sobering, clamping hands on his comrade’s shoulders. “We’ll do it together.”

Lance’s countenance had gone frail again. He didn’t look convinced.

“You don’t have to carry it alone,” Hunk pressed, giving him a squeeze. “This is what brothers are for.”


	6. Balance in the Crosshairs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place just prior to Chapter 4, _Death, for the sake of Victory._

Lance balanced on one elbow briefly to smear back the irritating grime on his jawline, which was probably now in his hair. His eyes never left the reticule. It had been nearly five doboshes since Keith came into view, and he was still in the crosshairs, down on one knee and scowling. The sole sentry stationed with him had a fist full of his dark hair, but nothing else happened.

The team, perplexed by the situation, bickered over what to do.

"Something's not right. They wouldn't just leave him with a toaster in the open," Lance objected over the comms.

_"I agree, Tailor 4."_ Allura's voice was infused with deliberate calm. _"They're up to something."_

Lance decided his nerves were finally shot, and he was ready to take action. "Permission to take out the toaster," he grumbled. A moment of radio silence followed as the team on the bridge considered his request.

_"Denied,"_ Allura answered crisply from the Atlas. _"Just keep eyes on him. As_ you _said, something isn't quite right."_

_"This is clearly bait,"_ Iverson observed aloud.

"I'm done waiting for shit to hit the fan," Lance muttered as the delicate flesh around his eye began to twitch. However, he obeyed. Her current verdict aligned with the nagging feeling in his belly that bade him to _hold his fire_.

Besides, to take the shot is to reveal yourself. Exposure is vulnerability. Exposure is the end game.

Lance was hypervigilant, especially engrossed by the time. The ticks passed his awareness like chills, each causing the hair on his neck to stand on end. They were past six doboshes now, and Pidge's suggestion came softly over the comms.

_"Cloaking could get me closer, but not close enough for a clean extraction."_

_"Stand by. I want the perimeter report first."_

Hunk was on foot and scouting the inner circle while Shiro was busy supporting the Rebel Squadrons. Lance busied himself by scrutinizing the sentinel, baffled that the Galra would entrust such a high stakes prisoner to one mere, unarmed pawn. Even more disconcerting was the fact that Keith hadn't made any attempt to escape.

The Voltron Team Leader was currently wearing his Marmoran battle-suit greys. Since Shiro was piloting the Black Lion in his place, the Galra probably didn't realize Keith was a Paladin, but surely they knew by his suit that he was aligned with the Blade. A scuffle had clearly taken place, as there were gashes in his armor, but his injuries appeared superficial through the scope. _Hate to see the other guy,_ Pidge had remarked when Lance described his condition earlier, but her comment had only made Lance more uneasy. Keith was relatively unscathed, and that did not explain why he still remained in the bot's custody.

"What is it, Mullet?" Lance groused. Keith's wrists were bound behind him, but that hadn't ever stopped him before. His glare was fixed out on the stillness of the wood, but Lance observed nothing there. No other prisoners, no firing squad or snipers. "Why haven't you made your..."

In the sentry's free hand, held casually at its side, was some sort of small, inconspicuous detonator. It had entirely escaped his notice until now.

_Oh, fuck._

"Hunk! Pidge! Do not engage; I repeat, _do not engage!_ I have sights on some kind of device; it might be an explosive."

_"Describe it,"_ Pidge demanded. Orders reverberated down the chain of contact from command, echoing Lance's warning. Lance strained his eyes to collect more details, but it was mostly concealed in the large palm of Keith's captor.

"I can't fucking see..."

_"Adjectives! Use adjectives!"_ Pidge shrieked.

" _Small!_ Fits in the bogey's palm; I think I saw an orange light."

Coran, Hunk, and Pidge dominated the channel then, talking over one another in frenetic dialogue that no one else seemed to understand. When they came to a hasty agreement on the estimated size of the blast radius, Allura unleashed a torrent of Altean slang.

"From that tiny thing?!" Lance squealed with disbelief.

_"How much time?"_ came Allura's brusque inquiry.

The cacophony of calculations took sickening pause.

_"We have no way of knowing!"_ Hunk declared helplessly.

"And if I can get a clear shot on it? What will happen?" Lance was already taking aim.

_"You_ can't _make that shot! At that distance, you could hit Keith!"_ Pidge reasoned.

" _Would_ it detonate?!" he snapped.

Pidge snarled in response. "Only _if you don't sever the..."_

It wasn't an _affirmative._ Before she could finish, he made his choice.

“Alpha Mike Foxtrot,” Lance spat as he forced his breath out, belly tight, and fired.

Two reports sounded, and after a moment, Keith was abruptly uprooted and dumped onto his back as the sentinel went crashing sideways, its grip still tangled in his hair. He held his breath and braced for an explosion that never came before twisting painfully out of the sentry's tight grasp. Once freed, he threaded his legs back through his cuffed wrists, then peered cautiously over its broad chest. He beheld a blaster hole through the housing for its communicator chip. The head suddenly spun, but before it could locate its charge, Keith brought his manacled fists to bear at an awkward angle, swinging into the violet visor, smashing the scanners, and dislodging the head from the neck in one sweep.

The blow undoubtedly left his shoulder dislocated, but Keith scrambled upright, seeking out the device and spying it in the dust beside the disabled droid. The unit was nearly cleaved in two at a junction of wiring, but the power supply appeared to still be miraculously in tact. It was an impossible shot, and he knew who had done it.

Keith's breath left him in such a rush that his vision blurred, and he nearly collapsed, but in the distance, the rapid sound of gunfire focused his attention.

There wasn't time for relief or respite. He had to go now.

Trying to shake the stars from his vision, he sprinted for nearby cover, but a sharp pain from his ankle sent him rolling instead. He shuffled on his knees to a small outcrop and tried to make himself invisible while he considered his next move.

The Galra's diversion clearly didn't work. The team was not here. He could hear battles rage several klicks away, too far for him to crawl, and he was without a transport. He was glad the team was not duped, but now he was also lacking communications or weapons to aid them.

Keith didn't bother reaching the Black Lion. She was closed off to him. Shiro was piloting now, and the connection was getting harder to reclaim every time he requested that Shiro cover for him and the Blades. She made her displeasure clear to him every time he struggled to pilot.

_Red._ He knew he shouldn't; he was the reason they all were in this predicament now. Hot tears burned behind his eyes, unbidden, as he strove to release his frustrations and call on her yet again.

It felt like a lifetime before he managed to sense her, but sense her he did. He shuddered involuntarily when a wave of fury washed over his psyche, and at first he expected it, guessing it stemmed from her anger at being grounded. But as he lingered in this frightening presence, he came to realize that something was happening this very moment that terrified them both, because it was well beyond their control. Each of them were frozen in place against their will, helpless to help, bearing witness to a shared horror together.

Too far away to do anything but watch, Keith beheld the ugly carnage of a Galra fighter slicing through the spires in the distance, and she knew, and he _knew_.

And he echoed her roar, giving it voice in the world.

_"Lance!"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out Chapter 4 for an update that coincides with this, because I am disorganized!
> 
> I may add more to this Chapter later, but still trying to decide where to take some of these things. Hopefully this method of writing isn't too hard to follow, but as I mentioned at the beginning, this IS an experiment. :)


End file.
